Fracture
by Mylenemee
Summary: It began with a train ride. It always had. Harry's sixth year after a summer of pain. I've always wanted to write the one in which Draco saves the day. AU after OoTP. Warnings: rape, Good!Slytherins, Slytherin!Harry, HPDM.
1. The Fragile

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

_The Fragile_

It began with a train ride.

It always had, and Harry believed it always would. There was not a time in his life he expected to be confronted with a lack of the yearly trip to Hogwarts. He tried to ignore the fact that this was his sixth trip as such, and what his rather stunted view of the future said about both his current mental state and projected outcome of the upcoming war. As he shifted slightly in his seat at the back of the train he realised, for once, he had much bigger problems than war.

This time, it couldn't be hidden.

One of Harry's greatest wishes, unsurprisingly, was that his summers would somehow turn into a bleak and distant nightmare, the events of which would be forgotten in the few short steps between platforms nine and ten at King's Cross, as if walking through the magical barrier could strip him of the Harry Potter who resided at number four, Privet Drive in favour of the Harry Potter, Gryffindor and so-called saviour of the wizarding world, though he was an elaborately constructed character that he knew in his heart of hearts did not actually exist.

This year, it wouldn't be happening.

Harry groaned quietly as he shifted again, the grinding pain in various parts of his body screaming in that way that told him in no uncertain terms he was _hurt_, and not in an easily fixed way. He knew beyond doubt that if he even managed to leave the train on his own two feet, his first destination would be the Infirmary, a thought that caused more panic than Voldemort had managed on the four occasions he could recall in blinding detail.

Wanting to hold off the inevitable discovery as long as he could, Harry pulled out his wand and checked the locking and privacy charms placed on his cabin's door, knowing after six years of living with a dorm-full of peers what they could and could not undo – especially after a summer's worth of leisure.

Unfortunately for Harry, he'd forgotten one thing.

Slytherins.

"Draco, I don't see why we had to leave a perfectly comfortable cabin to go traipsing about a moving train with no apparent purpose other than to—why's this one locked?"

_No no no no no_, Harry thought desperately. He would rather anyone, even Voldemort himself, walk in on him right now than the two people standing outside, currently un_locking _his well-placed and quite advanced, or so he'd thought, charms. Pain from what felt like a dislocated shoulder doubled him over as he tried to jump up to hide himself, though where, he didn't know, just as the door slid open and two people spilled inside.

"Pansy, I told you, it's rather im—_Potter_?"

Unable to do much more than breathe through the current excruciating pain radiating from the left side of his body, Harry nodded, face still hidden from the two Slytherins. He scrutinized their shoes – so much nicer than his own, he noted absentmindedly – as he wracked his brain for an excuse, _any _excuse for his appearance.

"Merlin," a shocked-sounding voice uttered, "what the hell's happened to you?" 

Harry finished standing, unsure what would come out of his mouth once he opened it, only to find that perhaps standing hadn't been such a good idea after all.

The shocked faces of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were the last things he registered before passing out cold.


	2. This May Hurt a Bit

_It Might Hurt A Bit_

Each year, there was an instance in which Harry woke up in the Infirmary. Just as he had hit the floor on the Hogwart's Express, he had been sure it would lead to this year's event. But as he came out of the blackest of unconsciousnesses, he could not detect the sterile, cold scent that always brought to mind the gleaming stainless countertops from the only trip to a Muggle hospital he could remember from his youth.

Floating further from unconsciousness, he realized the surface he was currently situated on was quite a bit harder than those provided under Madam Pomfrey's watch. The distinctly rhythmic sway back and forth and back and forth meant that he was _not_ in the Infirmary, and should probably wake up as being unconscious in the presence of the two people he had fainted before was nearly as far out of his best interest as going home for the summer had been.

Upon opening his eyes, Harry realised two things: one, he was in just as much pain as he had been since his uncle's fond farewell and two, there were now _five_ Slytherins watching over him.

"Potter," Malfoy began, and Harry could tell by the look in his eyes that he was not, in fact, an idiot, and had by now had Pansy, the bane of Hermione's existence since becoming the only Slytherin signed up for the sixth-year Medi-Wizard introductory course, cast the necessary diagnostic spells to figure out all the precursory details of Harry's present physical condition.

Someone else knew, at last, and Harry could stand neither the weight of that knowledge nor the small thread of hope it brought. As he tried to sit upright hands reached out to help – or hinder, he couldn't be sure – he began again to panic and did his best to curl up as far away from his cabin companions as possible.

"Shite, Greg, back off," a voice to his right hissed sharply, and thankfully, the pair of hands gripping his upper arm released him slowly. His vision swam under the force of his relief, and when focus was returned, Pansy Parkinson was kneeling on the train floor, looking up at him warily.

"Potter, you need to calm down," she said, slowly reaching out a hand to rest on the bench beside him. Harry did not want to be touched, he was in enough pain already, and shrunk back, shaking his head as quickly as he thought he could manage.

"Please don't," he said, shocked at the sound of his voice. While he knew his throat was raw and painful, he hadn't expected it to _sound_ quite as bad as it did. It was as if he had expected all of the marks and outwardly physical signs of the summer to disappear before he arrived at school, and only just realised that this time, it would not happen. The damage was too great.

Pansy exchanged a meaningful looking glance with Malfoy, who, Harry noticed, was sitting next to him on the bench, with Goyle – hands – on his other side. He closed his eyes – they were so _close_.

"I don't know exactly how you came to be in the state you're currently in, Potter – Harry," Pansy began again, "but you need to calm down. You're likely to faint again if you don't."

A nearly hysterical laugh threatened, tickling at the back of Harry's throat, but he took as deep a breath as his aching ribs could handle, and nodded.

"This would seem to be a rather obvious question at the moment, but who did this to you?" Pansy asked, and Harry wondered briefly why she was the one doing all the talking. Directly on the tails of that thought came the wondering why they seemed to be helping him at _all_, and bringing up the rear was the wondering why Ron and Hermione hadn't been the ones to find him, not that he'd wanted to be found, of course.

He must have spent quite a bit longer thinking than he'd realized, because Pansy's hand was inching closer to his knee, and something that strangely resembled concern was creasing her forehead.

"Why?" he croaked out, for the first time wondering if there were marks around his throat to go with his voice. A mirror would be helpful, Harry mused, because while he had no idea just how bad he looked, judging from the normally stoic expressions of his classmates, it was Not Well.

After another pointed look between Pansy and Malfoy, she replied with a raised brow, "Well, I don't know why, Potter. We were rather hoping you'd have the answer to that one, too."

Harry shook his head as quickly as his injuries would allow him.

"No, why…this. Are you helping me?" he asked. For all he knew, this could be an elaborate, concussion-induced hallucination. In the real world outside his head, it just wasn't possible for him to be sitting rather safely surrounded by his schoolyard enemies, having a bizarre sort of intervention involving his dirty little summer secret.

"Yes, Potter. We're helping," Malfoy said. Harry swung his head to look at him. As he opened his mouth again to ask why, a pale hand raised up, not quite but very nearly touching his mouth. "It's not exactly difficult to figure out _what_ happened, Potter," Malfoy said, a look in his eyes Harry had never seen – or perhaps never bothered to see. "The _who_ and the _why_, that's going to have to come from you."

The conflicting emotions in Harry ran full spectrum between bewildered and terrified. He did not want anyone to know, why would he? It wasn't as if people suddenly knowing would do anything to change the situation he found himself in after each school year – he'd already tried that – and left with nothing else, he simply did not want to face a school year full of even more stares and whispers, with the added bonus of pitying and disgusted looks.

At the same time, he couldn't help but recognise that a very part of him wanted to tell them everything.

Harry was so at odds with himself that he very nearly missed the sound of a quiet voice from somewhere behind Pansy.

"Leave him be."

It was Nott, someone he'd given little attention to. Well, he certainly had Harry's attention now. Nott was standing by the door to the cabin, a bit hunched over. He looked terribly uncomfortable to be at the centre of attention, Harry thought, but opened his mouth to speak again, more firmly, this time.

"Leave him be. If he doesn't want to talk, don't try to make him."

Shockingly, Pansy seemed to listen, and sat back a bit on her heels. Even Malfoy leaned back against the seat, and Harry breathed a little easier. He went to sit back as well, and winced as pain flared up again, this time in his hip.

"Here, let me," Pansy said, her hands moving somewhat nervously towards Harry, hesitating before taking hold of his. "I'm just going to…I know a spell to at least help a bit with the pain, a muscle relaxant," she babbled as she moved his right arm away from his body and reached for her wand beside her on the floor. The fingers in Harry's wand-hand gripped at air, uncomfortable with its gentle restraint and itching for his own wand as Pansy's pale one pointed at him.

He looked up at Nott again as Pansy mumbled the words to the spell, some of the pain in his battered torso sliding away.

"Thank you," he began, only to be cut off with a sharp jerk of Nott's head.

"Don't say anything. It's nothing personal, Potter. I'm only doing what someone should have done for me," Nott said, and for the second time in as many minutes, Harry looked at him. It made sense, suddenly. Nott wasn't a loner because he wanted to be, no. It was because he had to be, just like Harry.

Harry nodded and turned to face Pansy again, but caught Malfoy's gaze on the way and paused. He didn't understand at all why Malfoy of all people was sitting next to him, obviously worried in some capacity about his well-being. If anything, especially after all they had been through with each other, he should have rejoiced in Harry's obvious pain, ready to throw it in his face at the earliest opportunity. It's what Harry would have done, wasn't it?

Except, perhaps it wasn't. There was a difference, Harry supposed, and this, well. Maybe he wouldn't have used it, either.

"I don't understand," he said, and Malfoy inclined his head, just slightly.

"I don't either, really," Malfoy answered. And for now, it was enough. Harry closed his eyes and let Pansy do what she could, only flinching occasionally as she moved him here and there.

"I'm tired," he mumbled, not meaning to let it slip out. The words held so much more than just the physical meaning. He _was_ tired. Tired of hurting, and tired of hiding.

"Sleep, Potter," Malfoy said, not softly, but not nearly as sharply as normal.

Harry couldn't say if it was more of a surprise to the Slytherins in his cabin or himself, as he did just that.


	3. The Needle and the Damage Done

_The Needle and the Damage Done_

When Harry woke again, it was to a horribly foul potion being all but shoved down his throat by an equally foul looking Madam Pomfrey. Unable to control the sudden fit of coughing and spluttering, Harry doubled over on the narrow cot, the dark liquid of the potion dripping from his chin onto the white sheet below.

His chest hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before, as if a Bludger had been released between his ribs and spent the entire day trying to find its way out. He could barely make out the firm voice of Madam Pomfrey ordering him to take as deep a breath as he could.

"Can't," he tried to get out between deep, wracking coughs that had definitely not been there before he fell asleep on the train. He felt as if his throat was closing up, or perhaps it had decided enough was enough and refused to work all together, and sparks of black floated across his vision.

Madam Pomfrey's hands were cool on his forehead as she murmured a spell and Harry could finally breathe. The mess of potion in his lap was whisked away with a quick wave of her wand, and another vial was placed in his hand.

"Drink, Mr. Potter," she ordered again, voice stern, but the crease in her brow betrayed just the slightest bit of worry. "You'll want to able to talk when the Headmaster arrives," she continued, and Harry blanched, groaning internally at the thought of yet another reprimand from the elderly wizard.

"What happened?" he asked, still quite confused as to how he'd got from the train to the infirmary. Getting onto the train had been difficult enough, even with his uncle manhandling him straight to the entrance to Platform 9 ¾ and all but tossing him through to the other side. He didn't see how he could have made it all the way up to the castle.

"We were hoping you would be the one to answer that question, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey stated rather brusquely as she busied herself with various phials and potion bottles at his bedside, "both regarding who could possibly have injured you to this degree without notice and who dropped you off in front of my door without a single trace!"

If Harry had been confused before, he wasn't sure a word existed to describe his current mindset. He could understand dropping him off with no word – surely protecting him in any way would cause problems both within Hogwarts' walls and beyond. He could not understand helping him on the train, healing what wounds they could, intervening during difficult conversations, and seeing him safely to someone better equipped to help.

"Your injuries, Mr. Potter," the mediwitch continued as she turned and began handing him various phials, each more horrid than the last, "have given me great cause for concern." Her tone softened, while the worry lines etched in her face became more severe. "There are quite a few things I have found that have a limited number of explanations."

Harry had to look away. He could not stand the look on her face, nor the direction of the conversation any longer.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Madam Pomfrey," he rasped out, not quite knowing why he was denying anything – she was right. He simply did not want anyone to know.

Looking up as he felt her sit down at the edge of his bed, something she had not done once in the many times he'd been in her care, he wanted nothing more than to have her leave, while wishing she would stay and somehow fix the emotional pain rising up even as his physical pain subsided.

"Harry, you only have to say who it is that has done this to you, and we will take care of it. You will never have to see that person again."

She looked so earnest, he thought, and he almost believed her, enough that he'd just steeled himself to begin to speak when the doors to the infirmary burst open, and Professor Dumbledore moved quickly through, the expression on his face enough to cause Harry to shrink back against his pillow.

Dumbledore moved through to Madam Pomfrey's small office without so much as a look at Harry, and the mediwitch patted his bent knee before following and closing the door.

Unfortunately, this gave Harry time enough to think. Think about what was being said behind that door, about him, about what had happened, and Harry wasn't ready for that, yet. He'd gone through it, and that was quite enough in his mind.

His mind, however, had other ideas. Flashes of red-faces, harsh laughter, and harsher hands whipped through his head. Right on their tail was the memory of the most excruciating pain, both mental and physical that he'd ever experienced, and a terrible, sick feeling that he hadn't quite managed to shake.

Harry wasn't sure he would ever shake it.

He shoved the thoughts away with his hands out in front of him, as if he could grasp the memories and throw them from himself. It did not work, and Harry was forced to relive the experiences of his summer hell. Dudley's beatings, increased in brutality after finding out Sirius was no longer a threat. Aunt Petunia's callously feigned ignorance at what was going on under her roof. And Vernon's…

No. Harry refused to finish the thought, and refused to let back the memories he'd just finished, and scrubbed them away along with the few tears he'd been unable to hold in.

It seemed to take forever for Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey to return to his bedside, but finally, they reappeared. Madam Pomfrey gave a terse mumble before picking up the empty supplies by his bed and leaving the room, and Dumbledore wore an inscrutable expression as he stood at Harry's side.

It was funny, really, how a person's appearance seemed to change based on the perception one held of them, and Harry noted that since his outburst in Dumbledore's office, the wizened old man seemed a lot older, and a lot less wise. He was…fallible, now, Harry supposed, and wasn't sure how he felt about that. It was so much easier to trust implicitly, than to have to decide for himself. Unsure as to whether or not he wanted Dumbledore to know what he was thinking, he looked away.

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore said, and even his voice seemed older, wearier. Less strong. "What has happened to you?"

Everyone wanted to know, and to be quite honest, Harry was sick of it. Dumbledore had to know. Pomfrey had known, and had said as much.

"I must say I find myself in quite the situation," he continued, not exactly waiting for Harry's answer. Perhaps he hadn't expected one. "I feel as if I have failed to protect you, while also feeling that I have done the only thing I can to ensure your safety."

"How was leaving me with them ensuring my _safety_?" Harry all but spat out. The ridiculousness of the statement was not lost on him, and found himself unable to hold his tongue. "Do you _know_ what they did to me? What _he_ did to me?"

Another coughing fit took over, his already abused throat protesting his attempt to raise his voice. As he settled, Dumbledore began again.

"I have my suspicions, of course. However, Harry, you _must_ understand. There is nowhere else that will protect you, no home that still houses your mother's blood and with it, the only protection against Voldemort you have. We cannot destroy that protection!" The Headmaster drew closer as he spoke, and Harry shrank back, unable to quite believe what he was hearing. Dumbledore always had his best interests in mind, but this…this was too much to bear.

"Harry, you must try and put the events of this summer behind you. We cannot afford weakness at this juncture. Voldemort grows ever stronger, and our hopes…" he broke off, and bent toward Harry, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. Harry could not help but tense at the near-grip of fingers, nor could he hold back the moan of discomfort and fear that came as well.

"Harry, our hope lies with you," Dumbledore said, nearly whispered. "You know the prophesy, we cannot afford to lose you. And you cannot afford to lose your mother's protection."

"I don't understand," Harry responded through gritted teeth. He wanted the hand removed from his shoulder, he wanted the breath on his face to go away, he wanted his space his own again, and the slightest violation threw him into an almost-panic. "I don't understand," he repeated. Was Dumbledore actually suggesting, after all that had happened, after Harry had finally, as much as he was able, let someone know about the twisted home-life he'd had, to go on as if it were okay?

Had Harry wanted that, he would have found a way to hide it. He would have found a way to stay awake, to tell the Slytherins to fuck off and forget what they saw, to laugh away Madam Pomfrey's compassionate looks and questions.

Harry had not realised until just this moment how much he wanted help.

And just as he thought help was there, finally, it was being ripped away from him.

"I am sorry, my boy. You must go back. You mustn't let anyone know what has occurred this year, or the years before. It must not get out! I will not be able to hold back the actions that will be taken if it does, and the most valuable weapon we have against Voldemort will be lost," Dumbledore said, standing again. He looked fevered, eyes shining with a crazed passion, and Harry knew he believed every word he said.

There had always been a small voice in him that suggested Dumbledore's good will, his caring, was simply because it was necessary for Harry to remain under his wing. That said with ever increasing volume that Harry was only a weapon to be used in a war so much larger than him. That said while everyone else who had lost loved-ones in their time was encouraged to forgive those who had taken them, he was to keep burning a flame of vengeance. That when he forgot, all those tragically taken by Voldemort's hand were brought up loudly in remembrance of the cause.

A cause that wasn't his, the voice said. A cause he was now being sacrificed to, as well.

On top of it all, Dumbledore was telling him he had to go back, and go through it all again.

"No…no," he said, shaking his head. "No."

"You must, Harry Potter," the Headmaster answered, and now, now he looked again that all-powerful wizard who had defeated his own Dark Lord, in his time.

For the first time in his life, Harry was afraid of him, as well.


End file.
